Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I read over the emails again, tracking the breadcrumbs.
I’m walking into a minefield with my eyes open.
And I can’t fucking wait.
I’m supposed to be writing a letter of recommendation for a grad school candidate, but instead I’m searching “Simone McCall” on every database and social media platform I can think of. It’s pathetic, but here we are.
Her Instagram is private. I stare at the tiny circle of her profile picture—her at a football game, face painted with blue and white stripes, tongue stuck out, arms draped over another girl. Her Facebook is locked down, but the cover photo shows her with her mother, who is both prettier and harder than I’d imagined. I see now why Simone wears armor.
Her LinkedIn is barren: Century College, English major. There’s no mention of extracurriculars or work experience, but she’s joined the “Women in STEM” group, which I can’t help but find funny.
There are a few forum posts about the school—typical college drama—but one post under a throwaway name stands out.
“Anyone have Thomas for American Lit? Is he as strict as they say?”
Replies range from “He’s hot but an asshole” to “Just write the essays and he leaves you alone.” My favorite: “He has a stare that makes your panties evaporate. True story.”
I wonder if that was Simone.
I get an email notification. It’s from her.
Subject: “Re: Office Hours / Grade Inquiry”
“Professor Thomas—Saturday afternoon is perfect for me. Can you let me know what time, and where to meet? Is it okay if I bring snacks? Just kidding (unless you want me to lol). I’m kind of nervous, so please don’t be scary. See you soon!”
Her tone is different in email—less honey, more nerves. The real girl peeking through the artifice.
I wait an hour before replying, to seem normal.
“Simone—I’m free at 2:00 on Saturday. If you’re comfortable, we can meet at my house; the campus library can be loud and coffee shops are always packed. I’ll send my address if that works for you. And snacks are always welcome.”
I hover on “send,” pulse thudding in my throat.
I click it.
Now there’s no way back.
The next two days are agony.
Every class, I catch her out of the corner of my eye: the flash of leg, the cut of her top, the way she never breaks gaze when I call on her. She’s playing the long game, and she’s winning.
She always sits in the back, but never slouches. She’s straight-backed, bright-eyed, and every time she answers a question, her voice is just a decibel lower than necessary, making everyone lean in. Even the TA is in love with her.
But I watch her for the tiny tells: the way her pencil skips between her lips, the way she bounces her foot under the desk, the way she waits until I look at her to fix her skirt or brush hair from her face.
It’s enough to make me raw.
After class, I try to escape, but she’s already waiting at the door. She walks beside me, matching my stride.
“Hi, Professor Thomas,” she says, as if we haven’t already spoken in private.
“Simone,” I reply, wary.
She leans in, voice private. “Is your house far from campus?”
“Not really. Twenty minutes, if there’s traffic.”
She smiles. “I’ll bring cookies. My roommate bakes when she’s anxious, so we have a mountain of them.”
I try to keep my face blank, but the warmth in my chest is dangerous.
“See you Saturday,” I say, and she peels off, waving over her shoulder.
I want to fuck her in the hallway, right there among the medieval poetry posters and faded fire evacuation maps.
Instead, I go home alone, drink a glass of bourbon, and grade the worst set of freshman papers I’ve seen in years.
Saturday is a heartbeat away.
4
GETTING READY
SIMONE
Saturday comes far too soon. I wake up to sunlight slicing my room into stripes and a text from Professor Thomas with his address, nothing else. No emoji. No “looking forward.” Just an apartment number and a precise time: 2:00 sharp. If my body is a crime scene, my dorm is the evidence locker. There are clothes everywhere: discarded party tops, jeans that lost their stretch, one abandoned pair of Hello Kitty pajama shorts that Andie claims “manifested” on her bed, but I know better.
My desk is a sprawl of textbooks, coffee rings, Maybelline carnage, and the suspiciously orange smear of Cheetos fingers past. I sit on the bed, cross-legged and braless, and try to will myself into academic mode. I fail. I stare at the closet instead, hung with an evolutionary history of my bad decisions—vintage thrift, half a dozen Victoria’s Secret Pink hoodies, three dresses that would get me thrown out of Mass. I need an outfit, but what’s the right vibe for “I want you to save my grade but I’m also insanely attracted to you”?
There’s a tap at the door. Andie comes in, a towel wrapped turban-tight around her hair. She’s eating cereal straight from the box and already in her comfort zone: “You going somewhere, or is this a suicide mission?”